


With Their Own Hands

by inelegantly (Lir)



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Getting to Know Each Other, Investment Banker Knuckle, M/M, Massage, Masseur Shoot, Sensuality, Stress Relief, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 13:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1901043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/inelegantly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shoot became a masseur to help his clients with what ails them, and it takes one look for him to determine that his latest customer is badly overworked and much in need of his skills. It takes him a bit longer to realize quite how much they have in common, though Knuckle's good intentions are so very hard to overlook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Their Own Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is for friend [Irene](http://peacepowerpie.tumblr.com/) for her birthday. Her dedication to Knuckle and Shoot is so important to me, and we talked on twitter about how great the AU where [Shoot is a masseur](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/BrPVZVfCEAAl-Gf.jpg) would be, so of course that's what I chose to write for her. I could not resist the opportunity.
> 
> This is nebulously a canon-divergent AU where Knuckle and Shoot just don't become hunters, more so than a realworld AU, because Shoot still has his nen. But let's not worry about that too much in favor of laughing over how terrifying Investment Banker Knuckle happens to be.

-

It's an hour before close on a Thursday evening when the door to Shoot's business bursts open. He's thinking about calling it a night early, with his appointment book standing blank for the rest of the night. He doesn't often get walk-ins; he could use the brief reprieve. The sound of the door handle hitting the wall from how hard it's shoved convinces him otherwise. 

Whoever is gracing his doorstep – manners aside – must really need the massage. 

After his explosive entrance, the customer stops to huddle warily just inside the entranceway, shoulders hunched and eyes darting briefly behind him, like he's worried someone might have followed him. His neck turns stiffly, and the tension in his back and arms is obvious to Shoot's practiced eye. He notices Shoot behind the counter and promptly straightens, the confidence he'd burst in with resurfacing as if it had never faltered. 

"You do massages, right?" the man asks, striding over to slap his palms down on the countertop. 

It's more of a demand than a question, but Shoot has long since learned to excuse such oversights from new patrons. The question does seem silly, but he supposes even the sign in the window detailing the services he offers isn't always enough to clarify that "Hotel Rafflesia" is the name of a massage parlor. 

"I do," Shoot agrees. He can't quite bring himself to smile. His bedside manner never was the best, and he only wishes he had some overt charm with which to put customers at ease. 

He speaks softly and smoothly, though, and it's that mildness he's been praised for. More than one of his female regulars has confided that he seemed foreboding at first, a tall, somber shadow in loose-fitting violet clothes, but that they could no longer fathom why they'd ever found reason to be afraid of him. 

"I need one of those," the man says. "I gotta do something about this stress." 

He says it carelessly, but Shoot suspects the admission is more of an accomplishment than this customer might care to admit. He's wound wire-tight, like all his internal mechanisms have gotten jammed up, and Shoot would bet good money – were he a betting man – that the situation has endured for far too long. He knows that brand of stubborn pride. 

"You're in the right place," Shoot says. "Would you like me to explain the different tiers I use for massage durations and intensity?" 

The man frowns, gives a one-shouldered little flick of a shrug, like he's swatting a fly off his suit. "I don't really care about that. You're the expert, give me whatever you think is best." 

That's a lot of leeway – Shoot would almost prefer less freedom. He'll never get used to customers deferring to his professional opinion, no matter how many years he operates as an expert. He opens his mouth to at least insist they discuss pricing, before snapping it shut again. Intuition tells him that this man will find payment equally beyond his concern. 

"If you'll come with me to the back," he says instead. "I can just fit you in." 

Shoot steps out from behind the counter, only barely catching the tense grin on his customer's face before he turns to lead the way. Suddenly he's itching to work; no one should look that grimly triumphant at the promise of relief. While the front room is painted a soothing cream, the hall he leads them down is warmly wood-paneled, a rustic prelude to the atmospheric dimness of Shoot's workroom, where the lights are kept low and the walls hung with heavy violet curtains. 

"You'll need to take that off," he points out, once they're inside. 

He hardly feels embarrassment at telling customers to strip, not any more. The man's suit is cheap and poorly fitted, stretched too far across the shoulders and arms but opening wider over the waistline than is at all flattering. He'll look far better out of it. 

Shoot intends to allow the man a moment of privacy to undress enough for him to work, but he isn't given the chance. For a moment he's distracted watching large fingers push the jacket's buttons through their closures, then it's off, hanging from the man's hand as he looks about for somewhere to put it. Shoot gestures at the row of pegs along the back of the door. 

It's easier when his customers aren't body-shy, he reminds himself. 

He's the shy one, never wanting to intrude, nor to make anyone uncomfortable. He swings around the table in the center of the room, pulling down a towel with which to protect what little modesty his customer might care to retain. It gives him a moment where he doesn't have to make eye contact, where he can do his best not to notice that the man's dress shirt fits him far more comfortably than his jacket ever did. Its sleeves are impressively filled out; all of the man's muscles are unabashedly apparent, when he hangs his shirt beside the jacket. 

When he moves on to removing and fold his pants, Shoot hands him the towel, before he can go so far as slipping off his boxers as well. They have miniaturized baseballs on them; it's unexpectedly charming. 

"Go ahead and lie down on the table," he suggests. 

For all that his customer makes no protests about nudity, here he hesitates. It's brief, but Shoot catches the momentary pause before he walks toward the massage table, as if he's weighing whether the invitation is a trap. Shoot has had customers on their first ever visit to a massage parlor, who were uncertain about the procedure of things and who required reassurance that he would absolutely cater to his comfort. 

It's too bad this man didn't allow him to explain the process – Shoot would gladly have taken the time to put him at ease. 

But pride is a powerful force to fight against, and all Shoot is able to do is provide a moment for the man to make himself comfortable on the well-padded table. He takes that opportunity to shrug off the flowing robe he wears while in the front reception area, hanging it on one of the door's remaining pegs. It's a polite disguise; not every customer is comfortable seeing the truncated stump of his left arm right when they walks in the door. 

Shoot prefers to avoid the argument about how capable a masseur he can be with only one arm, so the favor is just as much to his own benefit. 

The phantom hands of his nen hover around him as he leans over the table, and he thinks the answer should be obvious. He uses his right hand to trail down the man's back, his touch remaining light as he tests. It's easy to get the lay of things – the man is one long chain of knotted muscles, the lines of tension etched deeply beneath his skin. Shoot begins to work them loose, fingers kneading with steadily increasing pressure. 

"God, that feels better already," he hears from beneath his hands. 

Not everyone likes to talk during their massage. Confronted with such a high guard, Shoot would have kept his mouth shut. It's weirdly gratifying, for someone so on the defensive to reveal his chatty side. 

"That would be the idea here," he says. His extra hands have moved to follow in the wake of his right, progressing down the length of the man's spine. "If it doesn't feel good, I'm not doing my job right." 

That gets a snort from the man, followed by a long moment of silence. Shoot thinks he's succumbing to the sensations of hands kneading at his back, but it turns out he's choosing his words. "I wish I could know that easily that I was doing my job right." 

Shoot is quiet himself, for a moment, before asking, "What is it that you do?" 

"Math," the man laughs, like it's a joke. "I'm an investment banker." 

It's not the answer Shoot is expecting to hear. He doesn't know what he was anticipating, from the look of that bad suit and poorly-restrained attitude. Maybe that his customer is a mafiosa. Investment banking seems far too pedestrian by comparison. 

"I just like the numbers," the man continues, when Shoot doesn't say anything. "Numbers are straightforward. They can't lie to you about anything. I thought I wanted to tell people how to make a lot of money, by explaining to them how the numbers work. It turns out it doesn't work that way." 

"Do you not like your job?" 

The man makes another rude noise, tensing momentarily in reaction. Shoot presses his fingers in hard right near the base of his spine, and the tension slides right back out. "I still like the numbers." 

"Just not the people?" Shoot asks. 

"Heh. Not some of them," the man agrees. 

Shoot massages the base of the man's neck, then along the shapes of his shoulders. He doesn't say anything else, just leaves the door open for the conversation to continue anywhere it's directed. He's learned to be a good listener. 

"Sometimes I just wanna tell someone to go shove his six-figure salary where the sun don't shine!" is what he's rewarded with. "These guys don't need me to tell them how to get even more rich. And they don't need me to help them hide their money to make damn sure it never helps anyone besides them. I want to tell them to invest it all in a... In a charity for shelter cats! That way they can experience doing one good thing in their lives." 

The man's frustration and anger come through in the lines of his body, as he tries to translate it into more clenching of his muscles and more tensing of his frame, as if the volume of his voice isn't enough for his ire. Shoot keeps him pressed to the table with a steady, firm hand, keeps him from working himself up any further than that mostly-acceptable baseline. It should be counterproductive, to let the man vent while Shoot is working on him. But his hands stay a step ahead of the tide, whittling down the man's stress from each moment to the next. 

"Did you ever do it?" he asks, curious despite himself. "Talk anyone into donating to charity?" 

"Once," the man admits, gruffly. "I convinced an investor to acquire a business with limited capital, but significant potential for growth. Didn't really make it clear what kind of business it was. My boss gave me hell for that later." 

Shoot chuckles a little, impressed. "Was it worth it?" 

"Absolutely." Shoot can positively feel the man's smile through his fingers. 

It makes him smile a little in response, as he follows the length of one of the man's arms, kneading those muscles with particular care. It's hard to miss the pronounced definition of the man's biceps. "It sounds like you do get to accomplish some good work." 

"I guess," the man says, voice going a little blustery. He has to work for it, with Shoot's other hands still massaging his back, and with Shoot's right hand lightly following the lines of each of his fingers. "I am good at it." 

Shoot hums to himself, a low sound almost beneath his breath, like that solves it. For several minutes they both are silent again, the man lulled into quiet by Shoot's ministrations, Shoot biting his tongue as he deliberates over the proper order of things as a professional and as a masseur. 

"What's your name?" he finally hazards to ask. 

"Knuckle," the man says, no hesitation, no indication that he thinks the question weird. Shoot realizes he would have had to ask later, anyway, if the man wanted to make another appointment. "Knuckle Bine."

"It's nice to meet you," he says, because the statement feels unexpectedly true. It's still a bit strange to say, so he tacks on, "I'm Shoot McMahon. Although that much is advertised outside." 

"I didn't notice," Knuckle admits, not at all embarrassed about it. 

Shoot only laughs, a momentary soft chuckle, and lets the hands controlled by his nen increase the pressure they're exerting onto Knuckle's back. He groans, a low, satisfied sound, and Shoot actually smiles. He, too, is good at his job. 

He's always cautious in social situations, preferring to watch and observe so as to ascertain the lay of things before offering any opinions of his own. He's learned to read people as a means of arming himself, more than because he was especially skilled at understanding body language. It helps him as a masseur. He can see tension and strain, can pinpoint where physical pain is contributing to someone's bad mood. Practice has taught him where to apply pressure, and exactly how much force to exert in working out knots. 

Knuckle is a tough case, as bad as he's allowed his condition to become. It's clear now that it's the result of work stress, a physical manifestation of too many frustrations all allowed to build up together. Shoot works them out with patient care, massaging every inch of Knuckle's back and shoulders, following each of his arms down to the wrist before delicately teasing out even the smallest aches in Knuckle's palms, before making sure his fingers are precisely and properly aligned. 

He skips over where the towel has been draped across Knuckle's waist and the backs of his thighs, even though he knows the man's boxers are still on beneath the white terrycloth. It's only polite. Services beyond the sensual are not among what he's offering. He's had his fair share of attractive clients, too, but he is a professional. 

He isn't sure how he'd go about it, even, if he ever chose to act out of line. 

Shoot massages along Knuckle's legs down to the ankles, letting one of his nen hands join the right so he can mirror every move. The other two remain at Knuckle's shoulders, kneading there with a lighter touch. Shoot likes to split up his attentions – he's found that it makes his clients feel spoiled, as if they're being waited on by more than one person, though they rarely comment on the fact that he can pay attention to more than one place at a time. The table is short enough that Knuckle's feet extend off the end, and Shoot gently bends one knee up, before pressing his thumb into the arch of Knuckle's foot. 

Their conversation has dwindled down from before, but it's a peaceful silence, occupied only by the sound of Knuckle's audible breathing and its punctuation by the occasional small gasp or low groan. It's proof that Knuckle has gone from strained and overworked to something more languid, his arms drawn up to pillow his head as he comfortably reclines. 

Shoot is incredibly thorough, giving Knuckle the best full-body massage that his hour of on-the-clock time allows, but even then, the process eventually winds to a close. 

"Hopefully you're feeling better now," he says, to help make the transition from the mid-massage relaxed state to something where Knuckle can stand up from the table. 

"Loads," Knuckle agrees. 

He takes the hint, pushing himself heavily up on his arms before shifting enough to sit on the edge of the table. He stretches, lacing his fingers and reaching both arms overhead. The musculature of his chest is no less sculpted than before; Shoot can precisely see the little indentations between his abs, can see the way his arms flex with his movements. 

He assesses that Knuckle is one of his attractive clients – relative to his personal tastes, anyway. 

"I can leave you to get dressed," he says. "And discuss payment with you when you come back out to the front." 

He isn't ready to do anything about his delayed revelation. 

"It's fine," Knuckle says, like that's normal, ordinary. He doesn't bother getting up to reach for his shirt, and his boxers still bear one of the cheeriest designs Shoot has seen on a grown man. Their pattern is likely what is attracting Shoot's eyes. "Hey, what made you want to be a masseur?" 

Shoot looks back up at Knuckle's face, a little wrinkle forming between his brows as his lips firm into a thoughtful line. The question comes out of nowhere, but it doesn't feel random, and he wants to give an honest answer. 

"I mean, I bet a lot of people told you it was a bad idea," Knuckle continues, gesturing vaguely in Shoot's direction with one hand. "Because of the arm. But you must not have listened, and you're really good." 

"I guess I wanted to help people," Shoot says. "It isn't what I planned when I was younger, but in the end, I suppose it suits me." 

Knuckle nods decisively, like that makes perfect sense, before pushing himself up from the table. "You sure helped me out. If I kept going like that I probably would've decked somebody, and you just don't deck the heads of major corporations when they want to give you their money." 

"I suppose you don't," Shoot agrees. 

Knuckle grins at him, and reaches past him to lift his shirt off the hook. He stands there, in his underwear, shrugging his dress shirt up his arms until it lays flat across his shoulders before methodically starting to do up the buttons. He's still smiling as he fastens them, an absent sort of smile that just plays about the edges of his lips, and he looks completely and unquestionably happy. 

Shoot is the one responsible for that. The realization is enough to give him pause. 

Knuckle doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary, though, just picks his pants up as well and steps into them. Once he begins, the process of dressing is quick and professional, accomplished in the span of minutes at most. He slips on his shoes, pulls on his suit jacket, and Shoot can't help but think that it fits a little better. It doesn't look nearly as cheap and ill-suited as he'd first assessed. 

"Alright, how much do I owe you?" Knuckle asks when he's done. 

"Come to the register, and I'll tally it up," Shoot suggests. 

It's all so perfectly casual, just like Shoot's interactions with any of the other clients he happens to see. His regulars do like to talk to him, and he's content to make polite conversation with anyone who takes that interest. But as he walks Knuckle to the front and explains to him his rates and what Knuckle is being charged, he is aware that his investment in being scheduled for a return visit is higher than normal. 

Knuckle pays him, and for a single moment there are words hovering on Shoot's tongue, something unspoken that he doesn't quite know how to voice, as he waits in anticipation for something out of the ordinary to happen. 

"Hey, do you make appointments?" Knuckle asks, and Shoot can feel all the tension draining out of his bones. 

"I can pencil you in for next week," he says, and he might even be smiling yet again. 

Shoot rarely has the courage for big gestures, and he doubts he'll manage to make one now. But there's a charm to the investment banker who tricked a client into sponsoring an animal shelter, a charm that he wants to be able to experience one time more, and maybe another time after that. He's very good at his job – he's known for keeping his regular customers. Maybe somewhere in that future dictated by measured routine, everything he can't place will all get figured out. 

-

-


End file.
